


Courtroom Rivals

by the1crazycatlady



Category: Perry Mason (TV)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Courtroom Drama, Cuties, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lawyers, M/M, Pre-Series, Sick Character, Sickfic, soft eye x grainy voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:52:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early on in their acquaintanceship, at a very typical trial, Hamilton Burger slowly realizes that his case is complete toast and helplessly begins to admire Perry Mason's lips. Perry, meanwhile, has no idea what is running through the District Attorney's whirlwinded mind and offers Hamilton a ride home later when he becomes quasi-deathly ill.</p><p>--I own nothing.--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heaven, Hell, and Judgement

Something Hamilton quickly discovered about prosecuting the esteemed Perry Mason's cases is that you had a very difficult time winning them.

In the long run, it didn't particularly matter much to him, because it was justice that was worth prevailing, not some egotistical sense of victory. So long as Justice was served, he was happy; he knew this.

But he still couldn't help but want to win. Just a little. Just so he could tell people that yes, he has indeed won a case against one of Perry Mason's clients, Mason isn't  _that_  godly.

Then whenever he thought something like that - about Mason being "godly" or something along those lines - he felt...strange. Unnerved. Like something was wrong with him. Basically, it was not a good feeling that went through him.

Hamilton never gave up on himself; usually, against other defense attorneys, he won cases. In fact - not to sound pompous or anything - he most always won. He was a good D.A. So whenever the folder came onto his desk, saying that so-and-so had murdered some new Mr. Boddy, and that Perry Mason was defending said so-and-so, he couldn't help but feel excited. Intoxicated, even. He could win this time, he could win this time. For once, some  _guilty_  murderer had gone to Mason, and the truth would be revealed. He could totally win.

Come the trial of one fairly typical case, with the fairly typical so-and-so who had murdered the fairly typical Mr. Boddy, Hamilton felt his case slide out from under him. Sitting there in his seat, watching Mason work his way with the witness, it was like the floor went away, just fell out from beneath him. He had to grab onto the desk to make sure he really was stationary, not falling into a great abyss.

_Hell_ , he thought in frustration.

How apt.

By that point, there really was no point in trying to salvage the case; it was obvious Mason knew who the real murderer was and was just biding his time until he could prove it. But Hamilton couldn't just flop down and say: "That's it, I give up". It went against everything he knew, about never giving up and fighting to the bloody end despite all impossible odds. There wasn't much light in the current bleak cave, but that didn't mean he had to stop trying to find it.

Nevertheless, he found that his mind began to wander.

He heard Mason talking, and the words registered in his mind, he grasped their meanings, but they just...weren't...there. They were like fluff. Hotel pillows that have mass but are mostly just going to leave you with an aching neck because of their ridiculous floofiness.

Mason stepped off to the side - Hamilton was pretty sure that it was the left, but it could just has easily have been the right. Hamilton felt his gaze follow the defense attorney and his face fell into the waiting palm of his right hand.

He couldn't quite place his thoughts; Mason moved, nodding and moving his lips. Such beautiful lips. Round and full and what must it be like to just...well...kiss them.

That bizarre, uncomfortable feeling returned and Hamilton glanced down at his notes. Trying to act completely normal, like he had not spent an unknown amount of time staring at Perry Mason's gorgeous lips, he scribbled something down. Putting the pencil down, he really hoped that what he had written down was something that made sense. Words would be nice, especially if they were relevant to the case at hand. Just to be safe, though, he rested a hand over what he had just written, then cast a wary glance at his secretary.

When he looked back at Mason, the man was talking again. He was getting deep into the questioning now - oh no. Hamilton stood up, grabbing onto the table to keep from falling.

"Your Honor, I object," he began, "on the grounds that the question is calling for a conclusion of the witness."

"All right, I'll rephrase the question," Mason said before the judge could comment. He turned 180 degrees and looked straight at Hamilton. Mason smirked and Hamilton felt the room temperature escalate. He bit his lower lip and looked at the tabletop, sitting himself down without further remark.

He'd never seen such bright eyes. They were blue, sky blue, and seemed to light up the entire courtroom.

_I'm getting distracted._  It was obvious, even to him.

Ouch.

*     *     * 

"Your witness," Perry stated, nodding at Burger. Burger stood up, keeping a hand on the table. Perry eyed him, wondering if it was just him that thought that the District Attorney looked a bit queasy. He walked back to his seat; it didn't have anything to do with him, so there was no need to worry about it.

Burger didn't go up to the witness stand, instead choosing to snake around the front of his table and lean against it. Perry thought that was strange - Burger liked to go up and lean against the stand, as if trying to intimidate the witness. It was a good method, Perry had to admit, and he had used it himself once and again.

"In the Defense Attorney's line of questioning, you mentioned that you were 'out' at the time of the murder," Hamilton Burger began, slowly. "Do you have anyone to vouch for this?"

Perry leaned over his table and scribbled something onto his notepad. Swirls. Random swirls.

"So you were completely alone?"

"Yes..."

Perry looked up, resting his gaze on Burger. They didn't know each other well, but Perry had felt himself growing fond of that prosecutor. True, he did seem a bit annoyed most of the time, and his constant objections could get infuriating, but he had a strong sense of Justice that piqued Perry's interest. One of these days, he told himself, he was going to go talk with Hamilton Burger personally, as in, out of court. Hey, he might even buy him lunch if the meeting went well.

Burger gripped tighter on the table, then took a few steps forward. He reached out for the stand and leaned against it. That was better; court wasn't court without Hamilton Burger striving to intimidate the sketchy witnesses. Perry wondered if Burger knew that the man he was talking to right now was guilty of perjury. Probably not, but then, Burger was a bright man -  _who knows_.

The witness made a comment and Burger nodded, turning away. "No more questions."

"You may step down," the judge said to the witness. The liar walked back out to his seat and Perry stood up.

"I would like to call Miss Isabelle Bret to the stand," he declared.

"Isabelle Bret to the stand, please," the bailiff announced.

Perry looked back to the witness stand and saw that Burger had stepped away, but looked pale. Concerned, Perry went over to him.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Burger?" he asked softly. Burger's eyes widened and he backed away, bumping into the table.

"Um," he began, stammering on the single syllable. "Of course. Perfectly." He tapped his forehead lightly. "Just a slight dizziness. Nothing to be worried about."

At that point, Miss Isabelle Bret was waiting at the stand, so Perry turned and focused his attention on her.


	2. Coffee

Of course it all went downhill. As per usual, the real murderer was discovered and there was a great, melodramatic confession. Hardly proper courtroom procedure, but Perry Mason seemed to have a special flair for the dramatics. It was irritating, but admirable, in a twisted, grotesque way.

 

Hamilton still felt a bit lightheaded, so after packing up his stuff, he said goodbye to Lieutenant Tragg and drifted his way over to the drinking fountain. His secretary followed him, so at least Hamilton didn't have to worry about fainting and being left for dead in the lobby. But he wanted to be alone. He really just wanted to be alone right now. Wallow in loss and confusion by himself, locked away in his office with a sandwich and cup of coffee.

_Pathetic_. Absolutely pathetic.

He didn't even know why he was feeling so low, and it unnerved him. Usually, he knew everything he felt and why he felt such a way, but this...this was weird. He shuddered and straightened up...his lungs burst and he wanted to throw up. Over his secretary's shoulders he had seen Perry Mason with his entourage, Della Street and Paul Drake.

It was horrible. He wanted to get onto his knees and just upchuck everything he'd ever eaten, right from birth, but  _Perry Mason_  was there, and that wouldn't do, now would it? Not only that, but his  _sidekicks_  were there. If there was one thing he knew about Paul Drake and Della Street, it was that they didn't hold Hamilton to very much regard.

Well... To be fair to Miss Street, she seemed polite enough, albeit only as is proper, but that Paul Drake, he didn't seem to like Hamilton at all. Hamilton had tried to count all the negativity he'd received from Drake after their first meeting, but he'd lost track when the numbers got too high. The animosity was mutual; the sad thing was that Hamilton wasn't even sure  _why_  he disliked Drake so much. He was a good worker, fiercely loyal to Mason, not to mention tall, good-looking, and  _always in the presence of Mason, day or night, why couldn't Hamilton have those sweet, precious privileges..._

God. So aggravating.

Hamilton prepared to turn to his secretary and tell him to clear all appointments for the rest of the day - who cared if it made a whole lot more work for Hamilton in the long run, he needed to lie down - but then Perry Mason called his name.

"Mr. Burger!"

Ever the polite gentleman his mother had bred him to be, Hamilton shoved aside the growing urge to puke and hide and instead turned to Mason, smiling. "Hello, Counselor." Thousands of ridiculous thoughts entered his mind:  _Is my tie straight? ... Will he notice the button missing on my left sleeve?_ Stupid. Totally stupid thoughts that made no sense.

Mason turned to Miss Street and Drake. "You two run along to lunch, I'll catch up later."

'Lunch.' Hamilton wanted to have lunch with Perry Mason. This was getting scary; part of him wanted to have lunch with a pile of paperwork, but another part wanted to get a drink and then go back to his apartment and try to figure out what was wrong with him, and yet another part wanted to dine with his courtroom rival. There was something wrong with all this confusion.

And it didn't help matters that he suddenly couldn't pull his gaze away from Perry Mason's beautiful lips.

"Um." He looked away, and it was like his eyes were to be yanked from their sockets from the excursion. His secretary, while definitely an attractive enough man, just suddenly seemed so...plain. Dull. Too skinny, too dark-eyed. "You can go to lunch, if you'd like. And clear all my appointments for the rest of the day, please - I'm going to go home."

"I'm sorry to hear that you still aren't feeling well, Mr. Burger," Mason said as the helping hands dispersed on their lunch-going ways.

"Oh, well, I'm sure it's just a minor little thing provoked by my lack of sleep." Hamilton grinned, praying that it wasn't something cheesy or fake-looking.

Mason smiled back, and it made Hamilton's heart soar. "Sleep-deprivation _can_  be terrible," the defense attorney agreed. "Would you care for a ride home?"

Hamilton wasn't sure how to reply to that - was Perry Mason suggesting that  _he_  drive  _Hamilton_  to his apartment -  _his_  apartment being Hamilton's? Or was he just asking for the sake of asking?

"I, uh, was planning to take a taxi."  _Because my car is currently inoperable._  Mason didn't need to hear that story.

"Oh, I'm willing to drive you," Mason grinned, "free of charge."

Money was tight... Oh, but what was Hamilton thinking?  _Him_ , accept a ride to his own apartment from  _Perry Mason_? Any other day, when he wasn't feeling so tired and nauseous, he might have laughed at the improbability of it all.  _Don't be ridiculous._

"All right."

He was a lunatic.

***

Burger seemed fidgety. He couldn't seem to sit still, definitely not look at Perry, and overall appeared extremely uncomfortable, or perhaps just anxious.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Burger?"

"Wh-what makes you think something's the matter, Mr. Mason?" Burger stammered, eyes as wide as saucers.

"Oh, plenty of reasons," Perry began; "you can't remain still and haven't made eye contact with me since you agreed to let me drive you home." He glanced over at the D.A. and ginned. "And, if you could, please call me Perry."

"Perry," Burger repeated. "Right, very well then, you can call me Hamilton."

They drove downtown until Hamilton pointed out his apartment complex. Perry parked out front, off to side, and glanced over at Hamilton. The other man was shakily lighting a cigarette, face as white as paper. His pupils were dilated strangely and his palms appeared clammy.

"Hamilton, you really don't look well." Perry leaned over and Hamilton jerked, fumbling with his lit cigarette. "Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor or somebody...?"

Hamilton shook his head, then inhaled smoke from his cigarette. "No, I just need to get to sleep. Thank you very much for the ride." Hamilton turned and began to get out of the car; Perry followed out after him, a fact that startled Hamilton even more.

"I won't be able to sleep right myself if I don't see that you get safely up to your apartment," Perry explained, "you really look terrible."

Hamilton considered this and kept his thoughts to himself, instead walking on, smoking his cigarette pensively and swaying from time-to-time. Perry walked along beside him and they entered the complex.

Hamilton's apartment was on the seventh floor. "I usually walk up the stairs," Hamilton commented. The remark was random, out of context. Perry smiled and shook his head; he leaned over and pulled Hamilton's cigarette out of his grasp.

"You can barely walk two steps, much less seven flights of stairs." He smashed the cigarette into the closest ashtray. "One trip on the elevator won't kill you."

 It didn't - in fact, Hamilton seemed very relieved for the break from walking. He leaned against the elevator wall, breathing deeply and staring straight ahead. Perry reached over, lightly tapping him on the arm; Hamilton turned his head to look at him.

The elevator opened and they tipped the attendant, walking out onto the floor. Quietly, Hamilton fumbled in his coat pockets, eventually pulling out a ring of keys. They walked a ways, then stopped at a door no different than all the other doors. Hamilton sorted through his keys and put one in the lock, turning. He opened the door and glanced over at Perry.

"W-would you like to come in?" he wondered. "Have a cup of coffee, perhaps?"

"Well, all right," Perry agreed, following Hamilton inside.  _Paul and Della can get lunch by themselves._  "So long as I'm not a bother."

"No, not at all." Hamilton pulled off his coat and stuck it on a shabby, naked coat rack. Perry did the same and Hamilton gestured over to some new- and little used-looking living room chairs. "Have a seat. I'll start some coffee."

"No, let me do it," Perry interrupted. He didn't know Hamilton very well, but he certainly didn't want him to pass out on the kitchen floor. So he reached over and grabbed Hamilton's arms, pushing him down into a recliner. "You seem too tired."

Hamilton offered some protest, but Perry was already making his way over to where the kitchen probably was.

"Coffee's behind the pot," Hamilton called, seeming to accept his defeat.

"I see it," Perry called back.


	3. We Aren't in Court Anymore

If you had told Hamilton that morning that he would have Perry Mason over at his apartment later that day, brewing coffee, he would have laughed at the very thought.

And yet, here he was, vertigo subsiding and being replaced by constant worrying and gleeful, immature admiration.  _He walked me to my apartment! ... Is the kitchen clean? He probably can't find anything! ..._

Hamilton wasn't even sure  _he_  knew where to find anything; he wasn't home a lot. Mostly, his apartment was like a closet: he kept his stuff there and very briefly took stuff out of it. On a good day, he might even put stuff in it. Basically, a closet.

He was starting to feel a bit better. The nausea wasn't much now except a nagging, clawing gut emotion, and he didn't feel as hot and dizzy. He reached down and unbuttoned his suit coat. Feeling self-conscious, he tossed the jacket onto another chair quickly. He just as hastily unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. Just then, Perry came back out of the kitchen and sat down on the couch. Feigning suave and casual, Hamilton undid his tie and tossed that onto the chair as well. And he undid the first few buttons of his shirt; then he stopped. Any more clothing removal would constitute as stripping, and that was...that would be uncomfortable with a guest.

_Especially a guest such as Perry Mason_. Hamilton glanced over at Perry, trying to think of something to say; the silence made things even more awkward.

"Congratulations in court today," he eventually decided on. It was polite and also liable to open up a new conversation - good.

Perry looked down at his lap...bashfully? Hamilton had no idea that Perry Mason could be bashful. Whenever Hamilton saw him, Perry was the harsh, sharp-witted lawyer, never caught off-guard, ready for anything! Hamilton realized that it had been pretty ridiculous to think that Perry was like that all the time. Was Hamilton always like he was in court? Of course not - you put on acts to get the job done.

"Why thank you." Perry looked up. "You did a good job yourself. You know...I've met a lot of lawyers and a lot of district attorneys in my time, and you...you're something else." Hamilton began to fret inside, wondering if he was to take this as a compliment or an insult or what, but then Perry cleared the matter up for him: "It's nice."

"Thanks." Were they actually talking? In Hamilton's apartment? And Hamilton was partially undressed?

_Shut up._

"I hope you aren't holding the fact that I win all the cases against me," Perry continued.

"No, of course not."

The coffeepot started to groan and Perry went into the kitchen, bringing back two steaming cups of black coffee. Right now, Hamilton found he wanted his coffee black: something strong the get him back into the funk of things.

"Actually," Hamilton began, "I'd rather lose all my cases than convict innocent people."

"I know." Perry took a sip of coffee. "That's what I admire most about you."

It took all of Hamilton's wills and mights not to beam. He had to be mature. Completely mature. Reverting to the maturity level of a twelve-year-old girl would not bode well with Perry Mason, Hamilton was sure.

Speaking of Perry...Hamilton couldn't pull his gaze away. The defense attorney lounged on the couch, feet propped up, back pressed against the couch-arm closest to Hamilton.

Burger licked his lips, turning back to his coffee.

"Of course, I have to have victories sometimes, or I'll lose my job." Not a pleasant thought. "Thankfully, none of the other defense attorneys have the same streak as you."

Perry grinned. "That would be a shame - I might get another District Attorney, and this one might not let me make him take the elevator and fix him some coffee."

Hamilton laughed softly. It wasn't particularly funny, but he laughed anyway - until the sick feelings came back. When that happened, each like a punch in the gut, he groaned quietly and leaned back in the chair. His pulse was throbbing in his ears, louder and louder with each passing moment. Damn, he felt nauseated again.

"Not feeling well?" Perry asked softly. Hamilton heard the other man put his cup down on the coffee table.

"Yeah," Hamilton croaked. "You know, I think I'll be going to bed now." He made himself flop forward and waited for his stomach to settle and his head to stop spinning.

"When did you sleep last?" Perry wondered. He swung his long legs over the side of the couch, looking expectantly at Hamilton; there was the strong presence of concern in his tone.

"I think maybe two or three days ago." Hamilton couldn't even remember. The funny thing was, he didn't feel tired, just wretched. Really wretched.

"You probably are suffering from severe exhaustion." Perry reached over and took Hamilton's coffee out of his grasp; he placed it next to his own cup. Then he stood up and helped Hamilton out of the recliner. "Where's your bedroom?"

Horrible possibilities entered Hamilton's mind and he began to stutter, feeling his guts clench together. "Um, no no, I don't - that isn't - no uh... Couch. Couch will be fine."

Let's not add a bedroom to this already embarrassing equation. He figured Perry wasn't thinking about...um... _that_...but let's be on the safe side.

"It's closer," he added, as if that somehow would help matters. Perry heaved him over to the couch.

"Do you need anything?" Perry wondered, passing Hamilton one of the recliner pillows.

"No, I'm all right." He turned his body away from Perry so the defense attorney wouldn't be able see what a terrible liar Hamilton was.  _My face is probably red and if I say anything else, he'll know that I'm actually really cold-_

"You're shivering," Perry noted. Hamilton squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the day God created body language. "Is there a closet around here somewhere?"

"In the bedroom," Hamilton croaked. "Go and just take the blankets off the bed. Down the hall. Far left."

And now Perry Mason was going to go into his little-used bedroom, see his suits hanging neatly in the closet, all smug and freshly-pressed, and possibly even view a slight mess. When had Hamilton cleaned up around here last? Brilliant, he had no idea. Of all the days to have company over.

A few minutes and a fishy feeling later, Perry returned with some three-odd blankets. It was only when he was sure that Hamilton was completely comfortable that he seemed to even fathom the idea of leaving.

"Are you sure you can handle being alone?"

"Oh yeah." Hamilton grinned from the couch, but Perry probably couldn't see it; the back part of the couch was in the way. "I'll just take a nap."

Perry twirled his hat on his fingers. "Well...if you're sure..."

"Go ahead." Truthfully, Hamilton wanted Perry to stay and baby him, but he was sure that he had better things to do besides that.  _See, I can be mature._  Amazing - that was his main concern at the moment, being mature about this bout of exhausted wooziness and not the actual exhausted wooziness. Ridiculous.

"Call if there's any trouble," Perry said, sliding on his coat. "I know you have the number."

Hamilton nodded. He didn't want to admit it, but he had the number memorized. MA-5-1190.

"I'll see you in court."

Hamilton smiled at the joke.

*      *       * 

The phone kept ringing and ringing; Perry began rubbing his hand nervously.

"He's not responding," he mouthed over to Della.

"Maybe you should let him sleep," she mouthed back, shaking her head. Perry made a little face and dialed the number again. This time, Hamilton picked up.

"Mm?" he mumbled, sounding drugged. "Hamilton-" He was cut off by a yawn. "-Hamilton Burger speaking."

"Hi, Hamilton, it's Perry." On the other side of the room, Della looked up from her notes.

"Oh, hey, Perry." The defense attorney heard Hamilton groan.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," Perry apologized; "I was about to head home and decided to call and make sure that you're all right."

"Yes, I'm fine," Hamilton stated. "I feel much better, but I think the tiredness has finally set in."

Perry smiled. "I should let you get back to that, then." He remembered something. "Oh, Hamilton, how would you like to go out for lunch sometime?"

"Lunch?" Hamilton repeated. Perry couldn't put his finger on what was there in Hamilton's voice that made him sound reluctant.

"That's right."

"Will Miss Street and Mr. Drake be joining us?" Hamilton wondered, "because I don't think they like me particularly much."

Perry thought about this. Della, not so much, but Paul, Paul did seem a bit negative towards Hamilton at times. "No, I was thinking just you and me."

"Oh." Hamilton paused. "Sure, of course. That will be fine. Are you busy tomorrow?"

"Will you be feeling better tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure I won't be busy. Anything you particularly want?"

"Well,"  Hamilton began, "there's this little diner I know three blocks from the courthouse..."


End file.
